


Seen with a Fresh Pair of Eyes

by emmypenny (burritosong)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burritosong/pseuds/emmypenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they come to S.H.I.E.L.D., it's because they each need something new. Clint goes, dragged by his heels and trying to crawl back where he came from, but eventually he embraces his new role. No one makes Natasha do anything she doesn't want to. She knows the value of choosing her own path. She hoards her options and saves each one in a bag, waiting for a rainy day to pull the right one out. She chooses S.H.I.E.L.D. in her own time. And then she chooses Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seen with a Fresh Pair of Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [panther](https://archiveofourown.org/users/panther/gifts).



> I'm not going to lie, this was almost called "How Clint and Natasha Got Their Groove," because I am terrible at titles. Actual title from "Fresh Pair of Eyes" by Brooke Waggoner: "'Cause I want to be seen / With a fresh pair of eyes / The single white tree / In a black hood of disguise."
> 
> Thanks to kuchibirumotion for telling me I could do this and for consistently putting up with my whining, crying, and instance that one or both of us is evil.

Clint hated guns. There was too much disconnect between the shot and the hit, he didn't like the noise, he was a traditionalist (yeah, right)--he had a different answer for each person who wanted to ask why. But the truth was, it was easier to get hit when you're about to take a shot with a gun than it is a bow. Clint would know; he's been in close-quarter fights with both. Someone sneaks up on you when you were about to loose an arrow, and you have as many weapons as you have arrows (great for stabbing in close range, Clint would know) plus one (bows are great for hitting and choking and just for general distraction causing).

But if you got jumped right before you're about to take a shot with a gun, you were screwed. If you're lucky, you have enough time to turn around and shoot your attacker. If you're not, you might have time to get the safety on and toss the firearm away from the person doing the attacking. If you pissed off some god governing the distribution of luck in a past life time, your attacker would be faster, stronger, and better trained than you and would get the gun out of your hands and shoot you with your own damn firearm.

Clint has never been lucky, which was why he found himself bandaged and handcuffed to a bed in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical.

The handcuffs had less to do with his bad luck and more to do with the fact that it was the only way to keep him in medical for any significant amount of time. Clint had nothing against medical. In fact, it was pretty nice that he was able to get medical care for whatever injuries or illnesses he was suffering without any hassle (except for the standard, "Agent Barton how did you get your entire left knee covered in porcupine quills? You haven't had any recent missions."). After years of putting up with strange folk remedies and home cures that usually succeeded in only leaving him feeling worse, regular medical attention was one of Clint's favorite parts of working for S.H.I.E.L.D.

(That and a guaranteed roof over his head.)

The one downside to S.H.I.E.L.D. medical was that they liked to hold him for observation, which Clint never understood, because either you were fixed or you weren't, in which case the doctors better do more than leave you alone in a room.

"I'm telling you, sir. She came out of nowhere. One moment, I have her in my sights. Then I lose her. Then she's up on the roof with me handing me my ass."

Coulson didn't look up from the form he was filling out. "Handing you your ass--is that your official statement?"

"If I say yes does that mean I don't have to write a report?"

"You always have to write a report."

"I can't write! I was shot in the arm."

"You're ambidextrous, and nowadays we have this remarkable invention called a computer, which makes report-writing a lot easier."

Coulson gave him a small smile and Clint resisted the urge to make a run for it. It was always bad when Coulson let his poker face crack.

"Fury's on his way up, isn't he?"

"Fury's on his way up," Coulson confirmed.

"I'm getting fired, aren't I?" Clint tugged half-heartedly on the cuffs holding him to the bed.

"You're not getting fired."

"You're right. This is S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm not going to get fired. I'm going to be killed and my body is going to be used for highly questionable experiments. If I'm lucky, it'll be in that order."

"You're not lucky," said Fury as he strode into the room. "Agent Barton do I want to know why, on your first solo mission as a full-fledged agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., you failed to achieve your mission's goal?"

"I'm pretty sure she's not human, sir."

"I'm pretty sure the fact that she's been genetically modified was included in your briefing packet," Fury said. Clint really admired the fact that he could be snarky and scary at the same time. "You did read your briefing materials, didn't you?"

"I may have skimmed them," Clint admitted. He would have shrugged, but he was handcuffed and bandaged.

"Did you skim over the part that said that she's dangerous and we need her dead?"

"Don't answer that," Coulson suggested. Clint knew he was doing it just to rub in the fact that Clint had screwed himself over, because if he wanted to be helpful he wouldn't have confiscated all of Clint's lock picks.

"You failed to take the Black Widow down, and she went on to kill a prince."

"Minor prince," Clint pointed out.

Fury leveled his "I will shove your sass where the sun don't shine, Barton" look at him.

"You hesitated. Is there a reason you did not take the shot when you had it?"

"She, uh...she smiled. Sir."

Clint was pretty sure that Fury was the exact opposite of pleased with the way this conversation was going, but it was kind of hard because his face always looked pretty much the same whenever he looked at Clint.

"Bad guys don't smile like that," he specified, because S.H.I.E.L.D. liked details.

Fury started yelling, and thank god the good doctors and nurses of S.H.I.E.L.D. did not allow that much noise in medical and whisked him away, because Clint already felt bad enough about getting his ass handed to him by a wisp of a girl who looked more suited to dancing than fighting.

A few hours later, Clint was released from medical with the standard blah blah blah about taking it easy and not ripping his stitches that he never paid attention to. He headed straight for Records and pulled every file relating to the Black Widow that he had the authority to access.

Usually he skimmed the pre-op files he was given because any extraordinarily important information would either be given verbally or would be pointed out beforehand.

This time he read everything, studied every picture, looked for proof of something he knew was there that no one else believed in.

* * *

Natasha woke at the first disturbance of her carefully chosen safe house. Her hand closed around the knife she slept with. There was a sound, small noise, on the other side of the door. She debated going for the window and making a run for it, but the door's lock clicked and she lost her chance.

She breathed. Feigning sleep was child's play, but she doubted that it would fool anyone smart enough to find her for very long. But all she needed was a second's surprise.

The stranger tripped in the dark, cursed, and she recognized his voice. It was the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who had tried taking her out--Clinton Francis Barton. The ex-circus orphan boy was supposedly S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best sniper. He never missed a shot.

Never, until he met Natasha.

"So I'm going to assume you're awake, and if you're not then I guess I'll just have to repeat myself," he said, still moving through the dark. "We--uh, S.H.I.E.L.D.--is prepared to offer you a deal. If you come in with me, turn yourself in, you'll be forgiven of your crimes and you can become an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

She could feel the lie in her bones, the air was thick with it. She would know; she wove lies as easily as others breathed.

"I read your file," he continued. "You've been running for a while. Long time. I know what that's like. I also know that it doesn't seem to matter--the running. It's just a fact of life. It's your everyday. Until you don't have to. I have a roof over my head, and a bed to sleep in every night. I get paid even if I don't work. It's a good feeling to have."

He had made his way to the window now, and he jimmied it open. The pane slid up with a screech.

"I guess you're definitely awake now," he muttered. "I'll be in town a few days, find me if you want to."

He climbed out the window, and she heard the scrape of boots and a grunt below.

She opened her eyes, but didn't move. She laid there listening for sounds of someone else, waiting at the door or window. She counted her breaths, and finally rose out of bed. She packed the few things she had left out before going to sleep, shut the window, and walked out the door.

* * *

Natasha saw familiar movement out of the corner of her eye as her waitress--Marin, according to her name tag--approached. She smiled as Marin set her coffee on the table. She took a sip, then reached into her handbag and closed her hand around her gun.

"You're a hard woman to find, Miss Widow," Barton said as he took the seat across from her. Natasha leaned forward and pressed the gun against him beneath the table.

"That you found me at all is commendable. Not many people can do that."

"I thought I lost you for good in Bacau. And may I just say, for the record, I hate Romania."

"How did you find me?"

"Honestly? Lucky break. Caught sight of you in Thailand. Been tracking you since. Luckily, I had some vacation time saved up. S.H.I.E.L.D. has amazing benefits. I never got vacation time when I was freelancing. And you should see their medical facilities. Top of the line and very shiny. I always feel bad when I have to go in and get blood on their--"

"You do realize I'm aiming a gun at you, don't you?"

He leaned forward and smiled. "And look at me, I'm not worried! Why? Because S.H.I.E.L.D. has great medical."

He was lying. Natasha could see the fear in his eyes.

"Why does S.H.I.E.L.D. continue to send you after me?"

Barton blinked, looked away for a moment, and then met her eyes again.

Interesting.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. sends me on all my missions. I don't really ask why. You can ask them. I barely even skim the briefing material. All that matters is that I know what target to put my sights on."

"They didn't send you."

"Of course they did."

"If you were sent after me for a mission, then why did you have to hunt me down while using your vacation time?"

Barton froze. "Shit."

"Why are you here?"

"You're good."

"And you're sloppy." He smiled apologetically and shrugged. "Why are you after me? Trying to redeem yourself after failing S.H.I.E.L.D.? Or can you just not stand the fact that your ass got kicked by a girl? Do you need a cootie shot?"

"Please just consider it. You're not a bad guy. S.H.I.E.L.D. can help you."

"Did you ever consider that maybe I don't need help?"

"I think it's pretty obvious you don't, but that doesn't mean that knowing someone's there to have your back in case you ever do isn't a nice thing."

Natasha studied the man in front of her. His eyes, his face, his posture--everything about him reeked of honesty. He was actually naive enough to think that an organization of the likes of S.H.I.E.L.D. cared about the little cogs turning within its confines.

It made her want to laugh, but it also made her very sad for the day that his faith would be crushed.

She slipped her gun back into her purse, and set down enough money to cover her drink and a hefty tip.

"I neither need, nor want, help. Yours or S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. I can and will hold my own. And if I see you again, I will kill you."

He spoke again as she pushed her chair from the table.

"Is it the S.H.I.E.L.D. thing?"

"Is what 'the S.H.I.E.L.D. thing'?"

"Do you not want to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. because it's S.H.I.E.L.D., or do you not want to work with S.H.I.E.L.D. because you actually want to be alone?"

He was tenacious, she would give him that. But he was also making her regret not shooting him in the head.

"The world isn't black and white. Maybe it's neither of those things. Maybe it's both. Maybe it's none of your business."

"If any part of it's S.H.I.E.L.D., I quit."

"Good."

"No, I mean I quit S.H.I.E.L.D. I'll come with you. Go back to freelancing or whatever."

He was honest and desperate and clearly too stupid to be of any actual assistance to her. "Or, you--"

"Or _you_ could come back with me and give it a try. If you like it you stay. If you hate it you leave."

"Are you really saying it's that easy to walk out on one of the most powerful agencies on the planet?"

"You're the Black Widow. If anyone can do it, it's you."

She stood there, looking down at the challenge in his eyes. She didn't take dares. Either she was working a paying job or she wasn't. Taking challenges from people, trying to prove yourself for the sake of being the bigger fish just got you killed faster.

"Why are you so determined to get me on your side?"

"Because I know a good person when I see one. And I know if you leave a good person on their own for long enough, they won't stay good for very long."

There was something there, a story he wasn't telling. Barton wasn't trying to save her from anything. But there was someone he wanted to save. A good person he cared about. She could use that.

But she also wasn't interested in working with anyone, S.H.I.E.L.D. or Barton.

"Good bye," she said, and hoped he saw it for the threat it was.

Still, as she walked away, she added Barton and his offer to her list of possibilities. He was open and raw, and that could come in handy one day.

* * *

Natasha finished her next job on a rainy Thursday. She collected what she was due, and took the first train out of the country. She counted the rain drops sliding on the windows as she considered her options. She never made one move without knowing where she would go next. Sometimes it was vague, "Go east until contacted for another job." Sometimes it was more deliberate, "Clean guns, pack, get coffee, go to Rome." But there was always a plan.

Right now the plan was "get out of the rain," and that had been accomplished temporarily by the train. She had potential jobs in Munich, Rio de Janeiro, and Sydney. She checked the forecast and it was raining in Munich and Rio. The Rio job seemed as if it would be too much trouble anyway, so she crossed it off her list.

She had enough to lay low for a while, and the idea was becoming more and more tempting the harder the rain fell. She could go somewhere dry with good shopping. Kill a few weeks before checking her web for more interesting opportunities, although she doubted the jobs would vary much from what offers she had now. Most people, her usual employers included, tended to look at a woman who called herself Black Widow and assume her skillset was much more limited than it actually was.

She wasn't bored with her work, but she was ready to try something different. Luckily, different had walked right into her lap, rolled over, and begged for her attention like an undisciplined puppy.

* * *

Natasha took a page out of Agent Barton's book, slipped into his room as he slept and prowled through the darkness of his assigned quarters. He slept fitfully on his bed. Beside it was a small table. Dirty laundry was piled in one corner. In lieu of a closet, there was a stout wardrobe. Most of the drawers were empty.

She hopped on top of it, pulled out her guns and everything she needed to clean them, and settled in for the wait. She was taking a page out of his book, but unlike Barton she was going to do it right.

* * *

He woke, screamed, and threw a knife at her that she caught easily. It would have landed square between her eyes were she a lesser woman.

She put it down, stabbed it into the immaculate top of the lowboy she was seated on, and went back to reassembling her guns.

When she looked up, he was still in bed and was gaping at her. She considered telling him he looked like a fish, but decided not to bother. He slept naked; she filed that information away for later. His body wasn't as awkward-looking as his face; she filed that information away for her own enjoyment.

"I accept," she said when it became obvious that he wasn't going to do or say anything.

"What?"

"I accept your offer. Bring me into S.H.I.E.L.D."

He seemed to realize for the first time that he was naked and covered himself with his pillow. "You're already in S.H.I.E.L.D.," he pointed out, climbing backwards out of bed on the side farthest from her. He groped for some clothing with one hand while keeping his eyes on her and the pillow between them.

"Then take me to your leader," she said, holstering her guns.

"Okay," he agreed, missing the joke as he pulled on some pants.

* * *

**EXCERPT OF CLOSED SESSION ON [DATE REDACTED]**

FURY, N: I need a report on Romanoff.

HILL, M: Psych's cleared her for duty. She's completed all of her training ahead of schedule. I'd recommend her for a small team for now, at least one other agent and a handler.

COULSON, P: Her scores are high. We haven't seen anything near them since Barton passed his exams. I second Maria's recommendation.

FURY, N: Her scores are lower than expected on team exercises.

HILL, M: Most of the field agents, new and old, have heard of the Black Widow. I've observed her training personally, and she's been nothing but cooperative. She's a bit aloof, but she wouldn't be the first agent we've had who's been like that. I believe her reputation has been detrimental to her, especially in regards to team and partner-based work.

FURY, N: Most of us don't trust her, Hill. She's been an independent agent for years. She'll prove herself given time.

HILL, M: That's not it, sir.

FURY, N: Then what is it?

HILL, M: They're scared of her.

FURY, N: Barton's with Sitwell now, isn't he?

COULSON, P: Yes, sir.

FURY, N: Give Sitwell a team of the new recruits. We'll have them run through a few standard missions, see how they go. Partner up Barton and Romanoff; he brought her in so he can't be that frightened of her.

COULSON, P: Who are we going to have handling them? There are only a handful of people who are willing to put up with Barton.

HILL, M: I'd recommend a senior agent with experience handling difficult personnel transitions. Someone who can discern when to back off, or when a more hands-on approach is necessary.

FURY, N: We're going to need someone familiar with Barton's usual antics, and who'll be able to watch for any bad habits developing between the two.

HILL, M: That's going to knock out Gier. She can work with Barton, but only because she goes along with his tricks to a certain extent. They're going to need a firmer hand.

COULSON, P: So that leaves Sterling... If not him, we can always give the new recruits to him. Sitwell doesn't tolerate Barton's--

HILL, M: I think we're going to need more experience than Sitwell and Sterling.

FURY, N: Agreed.

COULSON, P: Well that leaves--no.

HILL, M: He's my only recommendation as handler.

FURY, N: I'm in agreement. Now that we've got that sorted out, let's move on to the World--

COULSON, P: Sir, I respectfully--

FURY, N: Do you hear something, Hill? Like some sort of high-pitched whine?

COULSON, P: I can't--

HILL, M: Absolutely not, sir.

COULSON, P: Sir--

FURY, N: Must be hearing things.

HILL, M: Must be. Now about the WSC, I have the preliminary report for the Murmansk incident here.

FURY, N: Do you hear anything Coulson? A whine of some kind?

COULSON, P: No sir.

FURY, N: You sure? Because if there's some kind of whining sound, we need to put a stop to it. Could distract us from the actual business at hand. I want what's best for all my agents.

COULSON, P: Understood, sir. I'm ready to move on.

FURY, N: Good. Let me see that report, Hill.

* * *

When she didn't have meetings, Maria usually took her lunch with Coulson, Sitwell, and the other upper-level agents. Today, she headed to the common cafeteria, populated mostly by junior agents and trainees still fresh enough to think that eating together was all that it took to form a bond of brotherhood, or whatever they want to call it. There were a few senior agents sprinkled around the room, most likely because they need a quick break from their jobs but had too much work to waste time leaving base.

She does not buy the cafeteria-provided food because it has been a long time since she was that stupid. Instead, she brings homemade stir fry. Well, stir fry from home, and that's mostly the same thing.

(Okay, she admitted to herself, it was a frozen stir fry TV dinner repackaged in Tupperware. Maria Hill was many things, but good cook she was not.)

After purchasing a drink and warming her food up in the least disgusting communal microwave, she scanned the cafeteria for her target. The Black Widow was fairly easy to spot; she was the only person being given a wide berth.

"Is this seat taken?"

"Agent Casper is sitting there," Natasha said, not bothering to look up from her meal.

Maria stifled a laugh. Whoever said Natasha Romanoff had no sense of humor was clearly an idiot and needed to be fired immediately. She decided that served as invitation enough and set her food on the table before sitting down herself.

"He sounds like a friendly guy," she said, opening her bottle of water.

"He's fine as long as you don't mind the fact that he can't hold your back in a fight." Natasha finally looked away from her food to glance across the table with a ghost of a smile on her face. "Stir fry rice and vegetables?"

"You can always tell how long a recruit's going to last based on how quickly they learn not to eat to the cafeteria's food. It only took me one very ill-fated green bean casserole."

"It took me just one look at the lasagna. I've had roadkill that looked more appetizing."

"So have I. What did you bring?"

"Szechwan-style Vegetables & White Chicken," Natasha answered, motioning toward her food. "Courtesy of my friend Michelina."

Maria smiled. "What a coincidence. I'm well-acquainted with her as well." She took a bite of her food and grimaced at the taste. One of these days she was going to learn how to cook so that she wouldn't have to put up with food that tasted nearly identical to the plastic utensils she was eating with.

"I have to be completely honest: I'm not here to discuss your dismal cooking skills."

"I figured as much."

Maria tried to figure out how to phrase what she needed to say. She had no idea how Coulson did this. "We're concerned about your interaction with your fellow agents."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is paying me to do a job, not make friends. I don't need to play nice to do my work. So unless there has been an actual complaint filed about my behavior, I don't see the point in this conversation."

"You don't," Maria conceded. "And there hasn't been, but--"

"Then I don't see the point of this conversation."

"You're scaring the new recruits."

"I scare everyone. It's not my fault that you're incapable of hiring anyone with a backbone."

"Our retention rate among new recruits has dropped considerably since you arrived."

"I'm not doing anything that any other agents don't do. Have you considered that your hiring standards may be slipping? You might want to look at that instead of singling me out."

"Hiring practices have not changed that significantly."

"Then maybe they should, if your agents are so scared of one woman."

Natasha had a point, but there are other things Maria needed to talk to her about. They needed to discuss Natasha's inability to cooperate with Barton on missions, if there was anything she or Coulson could do to make the partnership work, if Natasha wouldn't prefer working on solo missions from here on out.

She recognized something in Natasha. She would never say that as women in a world of men they needed to stick together. That was just ridiculous. But she did know how hard it was to form any kind of meaningful connection in a room full of people who were intimidated by you. So she moved the conversation away from work, that was something that could be discussed later, and instead told Natasha about the one very embarrassing time that she actually managed to burn water.

Even if Natasha wasn't at S.H.I.E.L.D. to make friends, having one wouldn't hurt.

* * *

"This isn't even a milk run. This is a junior milk run. This is a fucking baby milk crawl. I can't believe Coulson sent us here." Clint stabbed his chopsticks at the air. "This is punishment for something. What did you do? Because I know I haven't done anything to deserve this."

Natasha ignored him in favor of watching the building across the street.

They had been ordered to Budapest to observe a building for possible terrorist activity. It was, as Barton said, a mission that was way below either of them. She had a few theories as to why they had been sent, but there was no point in sharing them with Barton. Over the last few months he'd proven himself to be as undisciplined and unreliable as their first few meetings had suggested. She'd see him choose one perch, only to have him move mid-mission without a word to either her or Coulson. Natasha was adaptable, but having to constantly adjust for his unpredictable whimsy was an annoyance.

"Are you done eating? It's your turn to take watch."

Natasha was used to long stake outs on her own, but she was jet lagged and supposedly had a partner to back her up. And she certainly wasn't going to pull his weight for him.

"If you need the break."

She heard him crumple a takeout container before approaching the window from her left. She lowered the binoculars and turned to hand them off when something caught her eye.

"Wait."

She zoomed in onto the street below them.

"Pull up the file on--"

"Frederick Jones," Barton said as he spotted the man who'd caught Natasha's eye. "Big shot businessman. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s suspected that he's been funding extremists for years but we've never been able to prove it."

"They will now. Look who's exiting that car."

"That's that von Strucker guy. I'm starting to regret ditching our comms."

""Here," Natasha pushed the binoculars at him. "I'm going in. We need to know why they're meeting. If I'm not out in an hour, head back without me."

* * *

**POST-MISSION DEBRIEFING**

HILL, M: What happened after Agent Romanoff entered the building?"

BARTON, C: I don't know. She did her spy thing or whatever. I tried to keep my weapon trained on her, in case she needed some back up. I saw her get overpowered--that’s not an easy thing to do, but there were a lot of them--and then the next thing I know our room blows.

HILL, M: Neither of you swept the room beforehand?

BARTON, C: No, we did. There was nothing. I think it was in the room below us. Explosion that big, I definitely wouldn't have made it out of there if I hadn't been by an open window.

HILL, M: So you jumped from the window?

BARTON, C: Thrown, mostly. I heard something blow beneath me, but there wasn't enough time to react. Once I was in the air I did what I could to not die when I hit the ground.

HILL, M: What did you do after you fell?

BARTON, C: Blacked out for a second, I think. Woke up, and headed across the street to back up Natasha. I guess the explosion gave her a distraction because she was fighting her way out.

HILL, M: You assisted her?

BARTON, C: Yeah.

HILL, M: Why didn't you attempt to contact S.H.I.E.L.D. before moving to her location?

BARTON, C: I told you, we ditched the communica--

HILL, M: There are several protocols in place in the event that an agent should need to contact S.H.I.E.L.D. and is not able to use the standard-issue communication device. Why did you not contact S.H.I.E.L.D.?

BARTON, C: She needed help.

HILL, M: Agent Romanoff has received extensive training from S.H.I.E.L.D. as well as outside sources. She is more than capable of handling herself in the field. Why did you not contact S.H.I.E.L.D. as per protocol?

BARTON, C: Fuck protocol. She's my partner. She needed me. I went. End of story.

HILL, M: Prior to this mission you filed a request for transfer citing "irreconcilable differences" between yourself and Agent Romanoff. You've since rescinded that. Why?

BARTON, C: We conciled them.

HILL, M: Please be more specific.

BARTON, C: Kind of hard not to trust someone after they had your back while you're guts were falling out of you, you know? Look, I brought Natasha in because I knew she'd work well with S.H.I.E.L.D. It just took me a little longer to figure out that she and I could work together too. I rescinded that request, because after what happened in Budapest, I can't imagine anyone in this organization that I'd rather work with.

* * *

Natasha hated American vodka, but she was flexible and this was an improvisatory exercise.

She was given a wide berth as she made her way down the hall, and she didn't mind it. It saved her the trouble of having to dodge around the other agents and making small talk.

Natasha Romanoff hated small talk.

She found the door she needed, raised her fist, and gave it a few sharp knocks. She could hear shuffling on the other side, but finally it opened a crack. Barton's face glared at her.

"Do you realize I just managed to get undressed?"

She raised the bottle as a peace offering. "I heard you're off the heavy meds. I am too."

"I'm not putting pants on for you."

"I've seen you bleeding out on a street in Budapest. I think I can handle you without pants."

Clint grinned and opened the door wide enough for her to enter. "Natasha, I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership."


End file.
